


Echinacea and Profound Regret

by RadioMoth



Category: Pocket Monsters: Sun & Moon | Pokemon Sun & Moon Versions
Genre: Caretaking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27218440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadioMoth/pseuds/RadioMoth
Summary: Guzma flees Shady House for some rare, much-needed peace and quiet during Flu Season. Nanu's tea tastes like shit, but at least there's no Skull brats sniveling on his couch.
Relationships: Guzma & Kuchinashi | Nanu
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	Echinacea and Profound Regret

There are very few times in Guzma’s life where he legitimately regrets founding Team Skull. 

The annual fart competition is an egregious example. For days in advance, Skull Grunts eat nothing but beans and Leppa berries in preparation for an event that lasts a full week, with actual tiers and competitive matches judged by a squadron of neutral parties. He’s not sure who the fuck decided it was a good idea, but it leaves him wanting to murder a man every time he even catches a glimpse of a can of beans. 

And sometimes, in the dead of night, one grunt will start to howl like a midnight Lycanroc- an action that, for some ungodly reason, seems to prompt the rest of them to start howling as well. And when he’s trying to actually get some sleep, it prompts an unholy rage in his soul, directed both at his past self for actually being stupid enough to start a collection of juvenile delinquents and the Pixar creators responsible for Zootopia. 

But by far the most prominent time is _Flu Season._

Some years, it’s not so bad. Some years, when they’re lucky, only a few unfortunate bastards are struck down, hacking up their organs and sniveling sadly through their fevers- but this year a combination of poor planning, an unseasonable cold front, and a sudden influx of new, younger members had left them scrambling. When one person gets it, everyone in the general vicinity tends to get it, and when your entire team of 47-odd people are all crammed into approximately two and a half houses, shit spreads like a wildfire. 

He can’t remember the last time he’d slept- too busy wandering the halls, doling out medication on a timed schedule and cough drops for whichever miserable souls still have enough voice left to request them, and Plumeria’s no better off. He feels a little like a Ninetails’ hacked up hairball, icy-cold and strangely lumpy, and each step jostles his sore head; he’d _like_ to lay down and take a fucking nap, but it’s hard when it’s just him and Plumeria against a wave of sick, bratty little kids. And leaving her to deal with the problem alone just isn’t an option- they’re his kids, his subordinates, and it’s his job to take care of them.

“Boss,” a pitiful whimper sounds from the room across from him. He sighs, hauling himself to his feet and snatching a water bottle from the counter before trekking in to see Grunt M curled on her side, half buried under a puppy pile of grunts. All of them look miserable, and even his rage, constantly burning as it is, smolders to coals at the sight. 

“Bet you’ve learned your lesson about playin’ in the rain, you little shit,” he replies to the unspoken grabby-hands for the water bottle, but his tone is soft despite the harsh words. She just nods at him, and he unscrews the cap for her, handing it over. 

“You should go take a nap, Boss,” she rasps after a few greedy gulps of water, voice a little stronger now, “Most’a us are feelin’ a little better, an’ no offence, but you kinda look like shit.”

He _feels_ like shit, but that’s what he gets, staying up when he’s supposed to be taking shifts with Plumeria. He’s Guzma, the world’s Baddest Boss, but that doesn’t mean he’s heartless enough to not let her sleep when she looks like death warmed over. She's his admin, after all- if she's out of commission, they're all fucked _._

“Some thanks I get for stayin’ up to make you ungrateful brats tea all fuckin’ night,” he grumbles, hand dropping to ruffle pink hair; she leans into the contact like a Rockruff, humming as his palm comes into contact with her hot forehead. 

“But, like- you _did_ stay up all night,” she replies, staring up at him with sleepy eyes, “An’ we really are feelin’ better. Just gonna sleep the rest of it off. So go nap, pretty please?”

His hands are huge, and one of them takes up most of her face as he shoves her gently back down onto the bed. She flops like a ragdoll, giggling tiredly- but no coughing, which is better than before. Maybe her idea has merit. Just a little. 

“I’ll think about it. Now go to bed, M. I got my phone, text me if you need anythin’.”

She curls up in bed and he can’t help but think how _comfy_ that shit looks right about now; he’s sore and tired and there’s a persistent tickle in the back of his throat that probably comes from inhaling fluff off the inside of his shitty cloth mask, and all he wants to do for a moment is flop down and let the pile of grunts absorb him like a Muk eating a trash can. 

Good shit. 

But he’s got other things to do, and he turns on his heel before he can give into the urge and walks right out the door- and straight into Plumeria. 

“When’s the last time you slept?” she asks, because Plumeria’s a fucking hardass who won’t let him just skate around her and into the next room. She’s got her hands on her hips, foot tapping, but she looks much better than him- probably because she’s actually been getting more than a few hours of sleep a night. She’s just better at shutting off her brain than him! He can’t help but feel like something bad might happen if he’s not pacing the halls, listening for the little shits and their whimpering. 

“I'unno,” he says, evasively- it’s the wrong answer. She grabs him by the front of his shirt and drags him in with shocking strength, squinting- and slaps a hand right over his forehead. A cold hand. 

“Oh, fuck no,” is all she says, and suddenly he’s being shoved- mahandled, really. Everything spins for a moment, and _damn_ his blood sugar must be low, because the dizziness is absurd-

“I’m not dealing with this. I’ve got forty seven other people to bully into caring for themselves, you’re going straight to Nanu’s and if you don’t I will personally throw you out of the third story window to spare us _both_ the misery of you being sick.”

Which is a stupid thing to say, because he’s _not_ sick. He’s not!! He hasn’t gotten sick in years, there’s no way-

But before he can even say as such, she’s got him shoved right out the door. Her eyes soften for just a moment as she stares at him, and one small hand reaches up, up, up to pat at his cheek. 

“A and B are already over it, they’ll help me with the rest,” she says, and her tone is so soft that he wants to curl up in it, pull it over him like a blanket, “I know you ain’t gonna rest if you’re here- you’ll just keep gettin’ up every time you hear one of the kids. So go to Nanu’s, and crash on his couch for a few days. Don’t come back until you’re fever free, got it?”

“You don’t have the right to kick me outta my own damn house,” he says, mouth twisting into a scowl as he braces a hand against the door frame, “You might be my fuckin’ admin but you aren’t my _mother-_ ”

“No, I’m your friend. And I stole your keys earlier, so good luck getting back in without climbing up to the roof.”

And then she slams the door in his face. 

For a moment, he feels the wrath of fuckin’ Arceus fill his soul; he snarls, rattles the door handle, kicks the door a few times, all the while shouting up a storm, but the door doesn’t budge and each yell tears a new hole in his throat, and there’s only so long he can keep up the energy before he’s hunched over himself, hacking up a lung. 

Okay. So maybe he’s a _little_ sick. 

He still doesn’t appreciate being thrown out like an abandoned Litten; he appreciates being told to go to _Nanu’s_ even less. He and the older man barely get along at the best of times, and he’s not stupid enough to pretend he’s at his best- and a part of him feels… nervous, not that he’d ever admit that out loud. Nervous about being weak and vulnerable around Nanu, of all people- around a police officer, around an older man, around someone who has the barest, tiniest hint of his respect.

He almost considers climbing up the half-rotted trellis that leads to the roof out of sheer spite, even turns to walk to it, but his feet start to trace a familiar path before he even realizes that he’s not headed in the right direction, the faded cobblestone giving way to dirt under his stained sneakers. Bulu seems to have taken pity on them, for once; there is no rain, just a light, cool breeze that feels nice against his flushed face. He almost thinks he sees the red-black form in the trees along the path, almost thinks he hears the jangling cowbell that follows the god pokemon wherever he goes, but he chalks it up to a hallucination and keeps trudging along, head down and hands in his pockets.

The police station seems to appear before his very eyes, despite time moving in a slog; he can feel the weight that fever brings to his thoughts, recognizable now that he’s not distracted by hundreds of little brats all vying for his attention. His head pounds in time with each step, pounds louder when he stumbles over the stair that separates the police station’s front door from the dirt around it; he doesn’t bother knocking, knowing the place isn’t locked. Hopefully it’ll be dark, and he can just… come in, crash, and be out the door before Nanu even wakes up. 

Arceus knows he wouldn’t be that lucky, though. 

“Judging from the mask on your face, I’m assuming Flu Season’s got you bad this year,” the old man says, and the way the corners of his lips quirk up makes Guzma feel _some kinda way_ , though whether that way is lust or rage, he can’t quite tell, “Need a break from all the squalling children?”

“Don’t fuckin’ talk about ‘em like that,” he rasps, and Nanu’s stupid mouth just quirks even wider, a right Cheshire grin on his face now. 

“Oh, even better,” he says, eyes narrowing in a manner far too similar to the Persian eyeing Guzma like a slab of meat, “You’re here to spread your sick germs all over my apartment.”

“And what are you gonna do about it?”

He shuffles a few more steps- kicks off his shoes at the doorway, then flops bodily onto the couch with a wheeze, grumbling when a Meowth immediately makes its home on his back. 

“Feed you tea and cough syrup instead of arresting you, like the terrible excuse for a police officer I am.”

He doesn’t _need_ Nanu’s fucking _pity_ ; he says as much, and receives another Meowth deposited on his back in retaliation. Both cats are a little heavy on his sore spine, but he’s too tired to bother moving them, and he can’t deny the furry little brats are at least warm- warmer than the rest of Nanu’s shithole iceblock of an ‘apartment’. If you can even call it that- he just shoved a couch and a bed into the police station and called it good. 

But even if it is cold, and kind of pathetic, and smells a little bit like Meowth piss and shame… it’s comforting to lay on his stomach with his cheek pressed against Nanu’s couch, listening to the man putter around the small break room he’d converted into a kitchen. He hears the hiss of the sink, the beep of the microwave as he heats up the water, the sound of his Persian’s claws clicking on the shitty linoleum floor as she follows him around, dogging all his steps… And Arceus, he’s tired. He’s tired and he feels like shit, and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt as comfortable as he does right now. 

Maybe, at some point, he slips into a doze- a fugue state, fever frying his brain and coughs wracking his body. Not enough to jostle the two cats from his back, but enough to make his chest ache. Nanu is quiet- Nanu’s _apartment_ is quiet in a way Shady House never is, calm and low-key, just the noise of another person existing and the low rumbling purr of the kittens nestled in the dip of his spine. A hand on his forehead makes him flinch; Nanu’s fingers are cold at the best of times, but pressed against his face they feel frigid. 

“Come on,” he says, soft, something Guzma can’t quite recognize coloring his tone as gentle fingers pry the mask from his face, setting it to the side, “Get up. The couch is shit, you’ll ruin your back like that.”

Icy fingers poke and prod and finally, he starts to shift and stand out of sheer irritation, lips curled in an exhausted snarl; he sways, and Nanu nudges him enough to make him stumble forward, past the couch and into the bedroom, and then right onto the mattress. It’s only marginally less terrible than the couch, but it’s still nice- smells like Nanu, the blankets warm and soft as he curls his hands into them. 

“Sit up, dumbass, I didn’t make this just for you to snooze on top of it.”

His hands are coaxed to wrap around a mug, and he brings it to his lips automatically; it’s not Tapu Cocoa, but it’s something almost as good, honey and lemon and something that tastes slightly astringent, medicinal. 

“Echinacea?” he slurs out, opening his eyes to stare into the mug, and Nanu mumbles something about it being good for his throat, the back of a hand pressed to his forehead. 

“You didn’t look nearly as terrible last go around,” he murmurs, and for a short, terrifying moment, Guzma is almost _fond_ of the man, of the way he pays attention to the ebb and flow of Skull, of the way he lowers his voice as if sensing how bad Guzma’s head is aching. It’s a disgusting feeling, one he almost wants to claw out of his chest- hand jerking for a moment as if to do so. But the moment’s gone quick, and he’s distracted by the mug again, taking another sip before he shrugs, too exhausted to bluster and bitch and reply with sarcasm. 

“Couldn’t steal vaccines this time,” he rasps out, closing his eyes as he presses his forehead into Nanu’s hand, “An’ half the roof’s one massive leak. ‘Lotta people got soaked, an’ then it got cold for a few days-”

Nanu just hums in response. That hand moves to cup his cheek, and it feels so nice- so cool to the touch that it almost makes Nanu’s entire existence tolerable. 

Almost. 

“Finish that and then get some rest,” the officer says, thumb stroking over Guzma’s cheekbone a moment before that blessed coolness vanishes, “I suppose I’ll be nice and not arrest you until after your fever is broken.”

“As if you could,” he replies, already feeling his body start to shut down on him. It’s stupid, to risk falling asleep in Nanu’s home- the officer’s been a thorn in Skull’s side for a long time- but… Nanu’s never done anything to _hurt_ him, or anyone else. Never done anything but chastise them for the shit they pull, and on occasion bail out a younger grunt or two from getting in some real trouble. So maybe, just this once… 

Cold hands gently pry the mug from slack fingers, but he’s already half-gone- barely even notices as he’s guided down, the pillow under his head softer than sin, the hands on his face a blessed reprieve from the heat blistering at his cheeks. It takes a solid twenty seconds for him to fully pass out- nothing more than a rasping breath and a shift as he curls on his side. He doesn’t even feel cold hands pull the blanket up over his shoulders, or pet over his shuddering back as he lets out a cough. 

And maybe when he wakes up, he’ll be back to normal- yelling and bitching and whining about the lack of Tapu Cocoa, pestering Nanu with bravado and big dick energy, but for now? For now, he just curls his knees to his chest and his arms in close and falls asleep, trusting, for some reason, that he’ll be safe here.

**Author's Note:**

> first time writing for this fandom, so hopefully it doesn't suck.


End file.
